Makers of widows, wander we must;
Killers 'tween seedtime and salting of kine;
Walking the Whale's Way, sailing the Swan's Path,
Daring the Sun's Track, tricking dark death!
In the jaws of the storm, jesting we stand,
Lashed with hail's fury, hand frozen to line;
Numb head rain-shaken, sharp spume in the nostril,
Salt caking hair—and blood's haven in sight!
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We leave behind the land of our fathers. Land of rich soil, flaxen-haired maidens and good, strong mead. We row the winding rivers of of the land of the Russ. Across the endless steppe to the palace of the Great Eastern King.
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